


The Euphoria Emporium

by LaughableLament



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bottom Sam, Case Fic, Coming Untouched, Community: spn-masquerade, Dirty Talk, First Time, Lingerie, M/M, SPN Masquerade Round 5, Season/Series 01, Sex Toys, Top Dean, mild exhibitionism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-10-01
Packaged: 2019-07-23 09:04:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16155914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaughableLament/pseuds/LaughableLament
Summary: Cross-posted from SPN Masquerade, forthis prompt:One of Sam and Dean's investigations takes them to a sex shop. The guy behind the desk is definitely giving Sam the best hands on customer service he can give, and Sam's a little more than flattered but Dean isn't too happy about it.





	The Euphoria Emporium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dephigravity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dephigravity/gifts).



> Thanks to B for giving this a read, and dephigravity for the most delicious prompt. Love to you both!

“Simple.” Dean hands over his hand-built masterpiece. “I’ll distract the clerk, you sweep for EMF.”

“ _Simple_ ,” Sam snarks, tucks the one-time Walkman in his pocket. “And if they don’t fall for your…” fingers flick, “charms?”

“Sammy.” Dean runs his tongue out; Sam’s eyes track him. “Everybody falls for this.”

Sam stares, thumps Dean’s chest and lingers, same he always has. Dean swats him off, same as _he_ always has. Sam’s chin dips between slouched shoulders as he turns away.

The Euphoria Emporium was the last place their missing surgeon used his credit card. Old downtown dime store building. Red awnings over smoked windows: _Lingerie, Oils, Candles, Gifts._ And neon: _Open 24 Hours_.

Dean heads through glass doors and a heavy curtain.

“Welcome.” Guy at the counter is some kind of Viking motherfucker. Twenties, six-four, blond-on-blue. “What—” eyes blaze when they land on Sam, “can I do for you?”

Sam smiles, straightens.

Dean gives Thor here a smolder. “Magazines. You mind showing me?”

“Back wall.” Douche barely even makes eye contact. Rakes Sam up and down. “I hope your tastes are more… adventurous.”

Sam coughs and pink climbs his neck.

“Joel.” Dolph Lundgren offers a hand.

“Sam.”

Joel trails his fingers, letting go.

Not even a glance Dean’s way. “I’m-ah… looking for lingerie.”

Joel perks up.

“For my girlfriend.”

Narrow eyes. “Right this way.” He ducks under a panel.

Sam falls in, and behind his back, passes Dean the EMF.

“So-uh. How… How long have you worked here?”

Dean rolls eyes. Ain’t just girls Sam can’t talk to. He wanders over where the Busty Asian Beauties smile out, fake and glossy. Listens with one ear while he hides the meter in a centerfold.

“Now, when you say, _for_ your girlfriend…” Gets his attention.

Joel holds up a white, satiny, lacy… banana hammock. “She’s the one doing the looking, right?” Frilly white skirt, more of a ruffly belt, dangling garter straps. “Show off that little, strip of thigh? You have got the legs…”

Sam ducks his head, bangs in his face and hands stuffed in his pockets. Stammering.

Dean swoops in. “Hey, pal. This is last month’s issue. Where’s the new stuff?”

Joel whirls. Sam gives him a what-the-fuck face and Dean shrugs. Joel walks him to a rack, below a neon arrow reading, NEW.

Dean fake-chuckles. “Thanks.”

Sam glares from a couple of aisles over.

He migrates toward the softcore stuff up front. Hunkers down. Squints through a display case full of whip-its and glass pipes at an old-school security monitor. Images flash past: parking lot, back alley, entryway, cash register…

Finally! Eye-in-the-sky on Sam, grainy black-and-white. Eric Northman crowds him; shoulders overlap and heads tilt in. Dean can’t see what they’re huddled over.

Joel turns for the rack behind them—

 _Fuck_.

Dean’s blood runs cold.

He-Man’s a shifter. Eyes flare in the monitor, and he steers Sam—full-on palm at the small of his back—to the far wall. Thirty feet of dildoes, plugs, and vibrators, ceiling-to-floor.

Dean steams. Stalks across the store and slips behind a pyramid of plastic pussies.

“This one.” Joel curls halfway around Sam, shows him a pink corkscrew monstrosity. “You stick a fat, ridged plug up her ass while you fuck her?” Leans right into him, picks out another. Black, bulged on one side with a ring attached. “And-ah, you know. Maybe something for you too.”

“All right, that’s enough.” Half a second’s tug-of-war as Dean grabs Sam’s arm. “We got what we need; we’re outta here.”

“Dean?”

“But…” Hagar the Horrible stutters.

“Thank youuu, _so much_ for your help, _Joel_.” Dean hustles Sam toward the exit. Shoves him through the curtain.

“Dude, what the fuck?” Sam spit-whispers.

“Okay, one? You’re getting that skirt. Just not from him.”

“Wha—”

“Two…” He ain’t fixing to monologue here. He knocks Sam into the wall. Winks up at the camera and pins him, crashes their mouths. Smells motel soap and some, fruity fucking aftershave Sam brought to Jericho. Tastes blue mint Scope. Sam grunts and squirms and swipes his tongue across Dean’s lips. Dean groans, lets him in.

Curtains fly back and Joel appears. “Get out, or I’m calling the cops.”

Dean salutes, drags Sam to the car.

Sam holds a hand over his mouth. Slack-jawed, kinda shell-shocked.

First things first. “Your boyfriend’s a shifter.”

Sam splutters.

Dean points at his eyes. “Pictures don’t lie.” As for the other thing… “We cool?”

“Are we…” Sam huffs. “Are you kidding me?” Chest heaves. “W-we, you…”

“What.” Dean starts the car. “You sprain your tongue back there?” One hell of a first kiss, he’ll give Sam that.

Fire extinguisher blush. “What do we do now?”

“Gank that guy.” Dean throws Sam half a smile, flicker of tongue. “Then loot his shop.” He flips the radio on, loud. Sam gawks but he keeps his cakehole shut.

 

***

 

They didn’t loot the place, but Dean did sneak that garter thing into his pocket before Sam wiped the surveillance tapes.

He steps in the shower, soaps up. Promised he’d take his time. Let Sam do whatever Sam’s gonna do. Have patience. Delay gratification. Aches, pains, and crematory ash melt down the drain. Dean rolls, pinches his neck. Breathes in steam. Pictures Sam in the second they broke that kiss. Wet lips, blown pupils and pink cheeks.

Knocking. Dean jumps. Catches himself jerking off, slow and loose and lazy. Dick bobs. Clear pool at the head, fist full of foam… Probably better he not walk out there pitching a tent. Cold rinse, unsexy thoughts. Thin white towel through his hair, over his shoulders, down his chest. Blood pounds in his ears and he sweats faster than he can dry off.

Boxer briefs.

T-shirt.

Blue jeans he doesn’t bother zipping up.

Steam spills out of the bathroom with him, rock star entrance. Sammy’s waiting. Wearing—dammit—jogging pants. Perched on the loveseat, we-need-to-talk etched firm on his face.

Dean slumps on a dresser.

“I need to know one thing,” Sam says. “What changed?”

“Nothing! This ain’t—”

“Dean…”

Damn stubborn little shit. “Cassie.”

That lands like a smack in the mouth.

“I mean…” How does he always get sucked into chick flicks? “Sam, I—”

“Loved her?” Prickly.

“Thought I could have something with her.” Dean dry swallows. “Thought I could want to.”

Sam stands, tugs his pantlegs. Hip cuts, treasure trail—Dean groans—frilly white lace. He turns, thumbs hook his waistband. Rows of ruffles pop free. Straps stretch over his cheeks.

Dean reels, pinprick vision. “You…” Plugged himself. Pink plastic wedged between.

Sam moves. Big hands cradle Dean’s jaws. Dresser edge digs in his thighs. Sam snarls, licks and nips and Dean liquefies. Double handful of Sam’s ass, gropes and squeezes. Stockings slide, lace prickles. Dean traces the plug with a finger. Sam rumbles a moan.

Dean shoves him back. “Stop.” Sam bulls up, but, “Just…  let me, fuckin, look at you. Chrissakes.” Little skirt, bunched up on his hard-on. Pale strip of thigh and twenty miles of sheer nylon. Even Sam’s giant feet look sexy. “Turn around.” Clear view, curve where his ass meets his leg. Dean’s balls throb, knowing what’s hiding back there.

He’s gotta see it, gotta touch it again. Knees hit the dirty carpet. Dean shoves Sam’s feet apart, feels up his calves. Rough palms catch and snag. Thumbs at Sam’s balls. Dean spreads him. Sam shakes. Pink plug base bobs and shifts. Dean pushes, pets it. Sam gasps.

“You think about me?” Rough. “Putting this in?”

Throaty, scorched, “Every time.”

Every—

Dean gulps.

“Look in my bag.” Sam walks away, kneels on a bed. Sits on his heels and watches.

Dean… has… no idea what to expect when he pulls that zipper.

“Stretch me with it. If you want.”

He damn near chokes. Purple, teardrop shape, size of a fucking Coke can. Laid out next to a fancy thing of lube. “Holy hell, Sammy, you take this?”

“No.” He turns red, pulls at his skirt. “I… just picked that one up.” Lip in his teeth, hair in his eyes.

Meteor, right in Dean’s chest. Self-defense smirk. “Turning into a real John Dillinger, Sammy, I’m—”

“Shut up.”

Dean runs fingers over the smooth bulb. “Nah,” just grabs the bottle. “Not this time.” He wants to feel this, all of it. “Turn over.”

Sam disobeys. Meets Dean at the bed edge, high on his knees. Sweat shines. Bedsprings creak.

Dean steps out of his jeans and hooks Sam’s waist. Grinds him a little. “Last chance to back out.”

“Dude. Don’t even.” Fingers feather at Dean’s cheek. Lips brush.

Dean grins into Sam’s mouth. Kisses harder. Plays with the lace and tickles Sam’s tailbone. Leaking all over his shorts. Sam shoves a hand in, pins their dicks together.

Dean’s hips kick; balls threaten. “You don’t get on your knees soon—”

“Am on my knees.”

“this is all gonna end—”

“Prematurely?”

Dean bites Sam’s lip. “Tragically.”

Sam huffs. Tips back. Stretches that long, long neck. Dean sucks him red above his collarbone. Sam claws, hikes Dean’s t-shirt. Dean breaks, lets Sam watch him strip.

Fucking Hitchcock camera trick, adreno-vision. Staring at each other. Shallow breath and rushing pulse.

“You’re. Big.” Sam licks his lips.

Dean burns. “Not gonna hurt you, Sammy, you don’t—”

“I know.” Sam flips. Candy pink. “Do it.”

Dean kneels. Naked behind Sam. Hooks a garter strap with his finger, drags his knuckle down.

Sam squirms. “Come on, Dean.”

Snaps the elastic.

Sam jumps. Hisses, “Dick.”

Dean snickers. Unhooks Sam’s back garters and palms soft circles on his bare ass. Pinches and scratches. Sam vibrates. Fists balled over his head, face in a pillow. Plug pulses. Dean plays with his balls, teases his cock. Sam’s soft murmurs stretch into moans. Dean spreads him. Plug base slips through his fingers on the first try. Second. Slick hole doesn’t want to give it up.

Dean wipes his hand on the bedspread, gets a grip. “You’re gonna have to help me.”

Grunted affirmative.

Dean pulls. Sam’s ass stretches. Pale and taut, nearly makes him rethink the big toy. Dean twists, lets the pink bulb slide back in, swirls it around. Sam bends. Yells. Thighs twitch and he bangs fists on the bed. Dean pets him, eases him down. One strong, steady, tug, and Sam’s hole flutters closed.

Dean’s dick blurts. Wants in there so bad his balls are bricks.

He manhandles Sam to his back over token resistance. Blankets him. Strokes Sam’s neck and shoulder, bicep. Kisses for all he’s worth. Dean drifts down. Hollow of Sam’s throat, solar plexus, belly button. Skips his dick. Sam grunts, bucks with his hips and Dean smirks into his thigh.

Sam takes two fingers easy as a girl. Arcs off the bed. Skin glimmers where sweat rolls. Dean lubes, works in a third. Sam wilts. Half-mast and flagging until…

“Oh, shit, fuck, right-there.” Sam grinds. Head thrashes and fists clench.

Dean ain’t even moving. “Sammy, can you come like this?”

Lip in his teeth, red-faced, Sam nods. Hair curls and clings around his temples.

Dean pulls out, flops on his back. “Show me.”

Sam’s lips part. He rolls over and digs in the nightstand. Skirt’s all bunched around his waist and his stockings droop. Dean runs a finger down his spine, smiles at his shiver. Foil glints as he turns back.

Sammy stashed a rubber.

Dean grins. “Sack me up!”

Sam rolls eyes, straddles and strokes Dean. Gets him leaking. Rolls the rubber on and follows with a slick fist.

Dean holds still, holds his dick. Sam separates his cheeks and sinks. Head rolls back, sweat pours, spearing himself. Balls bang Dean’s wrist. Ruffles scratch as Sam settles.

“Take this…” Dean swats the skirt. “Get rid of it.” Steadying breath and he unhooks Sam’s suspenders. Sam handles the back clasps. Dean snatches and sends the white lace flying. Sam laughs. Inside muscles shake and Dean groans. Damn near drops his nut. “Sam, you gotta…” gets him around the hips, thumbs in the creases. “Tell me what you need, little brother, want you to lose it all over me.”

Sam rumbles, leans back on Dean’s bent knees. Stockings down around his ankles. Wiggles, shifts, and clenches. Lifts and falls and “Ohhhh, fuck.” Sam blows, Dean roars, bucks like he’s trying to levitate. Hot splashes. Sam collapses, rides him, milks him. Kisses underneath his chin and down his throat. Dean balls a fist in Sam’s hair. Wipes his eyes with his forearm. Chokes, when he slips out.

Sam rolls off, props on an elbow while they catch their breath. Long finger draws circles and lines on Dean’s chest, smears come around. Dean ties the condom off and chucks it toward the trash. Swishing plastic says he might’ve made it.

“We should shower.” Dean grunts, knuckles the headboard on his stretch.

Sam’s eyes gleam.

“Not like that, you fuckin’ pervert.”

Sam jabs Dean’s ribs. “That’s not a ‘no.’”

“Nah…” Dean chuckles. “Sure ain’t.”

Sam pounces. Tumbles him under, kisses him breathless.


End file.
